


lost intentions

by jillyfae



Series: Intended [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Politics, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be a marriage of convenience.  Politics, only.  Perhaps they could become friends, if they were lucky.</p>
<p>Somehow it didn't take long at all to start to become something else entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lost intentions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asolitaryrose](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=asolitaryrose).



Anora did not intend to fall in love again. 

It was not worth the cost.  It was enough to have a partner, a friend.  Respect was more valuable than gold, in her experience, and much more useful than passion.

It was better for Ferelden, to have rulers who took their duty seriously, who would not be distracted by flirtations or personal desires.

Or so she told herself, each day, when she'd look at her consort over the lip of her mug of tea, and feel the sudden urge to smile.

Or when she'd hear his laugh from around the corner, and want to step just a little faster, to find out what had brought him such amusement.

Or when she'd have to swallow her own delighted laughter when he turned the words of a particularly obtuse noble or ambassador back against him, and said petitioner had no option but to accept royal judgment, and bow, and slide away before he somehow made things worse.

Aedan was incorrigible, arrogant and beautiful and charming and always convinced he was smarter than everyone else in the room.

Except for her.  He always caught her eyes, and smiled, and nodded, as if he knew that she was always in on the joke, never the one being joked about.

She would feel her own face soften in response, be about to smile back, no matter they were in public, no matter the courtiers watching, until his elf would lean out from the shadows behind Aedan's chair, and her husband would turn, and his eyes would soften and his smile would sharpen and she'd remember all those nights alone, when Cailan couldn't be bothered to be discreet enough, and she would remind herself that this time she wasn't in love.

This time it didn't matter.

This time it wouldn't hurt.

This time, her husband was much too clever to avoid when he had a _plan_.

Aedan ever so charmingly 'suggested' she spar with Zevran, 'requested' Zevran have tea with her once a week. 

"My two favorite people should be friends, yes?"  And there, in that smile, was the same steel that had helped him survive Howe's massacre, had made him Hero, and they both, of course, agreed.

She wanted to hate him, elf and assassin and her husband's lover.

Not that she was jealous.

She had known what she was getting into, this time, had walked into their little arrangement with her eyes wide open.

But how could he possibly be trusted?

An Antivan Crow in the King's bed.  It was the beginning of the worse sort of melodrama, the kind that ended with everyone dead.

An Antivan Crow who enjoyed being seen as _ridiculous._

A luxury she would never be able to afford.

He had the most incredibly inappropriate turn of phrase, a lewd smile even when his words appeared to be innocent.  Not that that happened very often.  The elf positively reeked with innuendo.

Until the day she met him on the practice court, as her husband had desired, and all his sly edges were clean and sharp, and when he beat her handily he grinned, and told her how he liked her knives, but perhaps her majesty should try _this_ instead?

She found herself adjusting her stance, her grip, half-forgotten lessons whispering in the back of her mind, echoing his words.

He surpassed those memories surprisingly quickly.  He was a better taskmaster than the ones she'd had before she was Queen, before everyone began to bow, and whisper, and refuse to risk their reputations against her steel, refuse to be the ones who might mar the smooth expanse of perfect skin "required" of a Lady.

The elf, despite his extravagant manners, had no such concerns, pushing her on even as her muscles ached and her palms beneath her gloves grew slick with sweat, laughing as he spun out of the way, an eternally unreachable goal, all golden hair and warm skin and impossible grace.

He was quieter, when they sat at tea, heat and humor banked behind his eyes, and she hated that she knew that now, that she could not just slide him back into her husband's shadow. 

And yet.  She could not hate their conversations themselves.  She could say anything at all, and he would only smile, or sigh, and embark on an elaborate and implausible tale of Antivan or personal history that underscored her point in any of a myriad unexpected ways.

Or, occasionally, was ridiculous enough to startle a laugh out of her, and she'd see something in his eyes shift, something in his face soften, and she'd feel a sudden need to examine her mug, or the sugar bowl, or reach for the last bit of biscuit, oddly breathless in the sudden silence.

He was smart, her husband's elf, smarter than he seemed, smarter than he pretended, smarter than he let anyone besides Aedan see.

And her, for some reason, and she wasn't quite sure why that seemed like such a gift, but she was grateful for it, nonetheless.

He didn't trust easily, and the thought that he trusted her, when almost everyone she ever knew had bowed to politics and slipped away, unwilling to risk themselves with the Queen, unwilling to see Anora herself apart from her position ...

The elf seemed to see both.

He always complimented her on her clothes, her hair, _quietly,_ after the first few times she'd shut down an apparent flirtation, but he always noticed something new, even before Aedan did.

Aedan would laugh, and apologize for being so very blind before her beauty, _ridiculous man_ , and kiss her hand.  The elf wouldn't quite smile, but he was clearly so very pleased with himself, the light catching in his eyes as he tilted his head and watched them.

She could not seem to mind an audience, when it was only him.

The day she finally managed to make it past his guard on the practice court, he flashed the brightest grin she'd ever seen, and picked her up and spun her around, and when he set her on her feet again she could not help but notice how warm he was, his body so close against hers, _how strong, to have lifted me despite the fact that I am taller,_ his hand lifting to almost touch her cheek.

"Congratulations, my Queen."  His voice was low, the softest purr between them, and then he stepped back, and bowed, ridiculously low, knee bent and arm sweeping out to the side, and when he glanced up at her, she couldn't help but notice how thick his eyelashes were, much darker than her own, despite the warm gold color of his hair.

"Thank you, Zevran," she nodded her head, kept her voice steady despite the ache in her throat and the heat beneath her skin, a warmth that could not just be explained away by the exertion of their match, or pride in her victory.

"Oh, so all I had to do to get you to say my name was let you win?"  Zevran straightened up, still smiling, though it was different than any she'd seen him share with her before, almost soft, almost honest.

"Have I never?" She paused.  She hadn't.  She'd been so determined to keep her distance, to relegate him to _an other_ she could ignore, so she could pretend her husband's affection for him did not count.  "My apologies, then."

"Ah, _cara mia,_ an apology from milady herself!"  His hand pressed to his heart as he leaned back, his weight shifting easily to rest on his heels.  "I do not deserve such grace."

"Of course you do." She sniffed.  _Ridiculous elf._   "Now if you are quite finished?"

"Your wish is my command, my Queen."

"You may call me Anora, if you wish."  She saw his eyes widen, found herself distracted by the way his tattoos shifted when his skin moved, had a terrible feeling she might be blushing.  "When we are not at Court, I mean."

"Of course."  He bowed again, the lift of his brows almost sardonic, but they eased when he met her eyes again, that same impossible smile.  "Anora."

_Oh._   She had quite forgotten how to breathe, at the simple sound of her name.  She felt a sudden unexpected pang of sympathy, much too late, for poor dead Cailan.  If his dalliances had made him feel like _this ..._

But she was not Cailan.

She did not know if such a thing would pain Aedan as it had once pained her, but if it would, she could not bear to be the cause. 

She gathered her duty around her again, her dignity.  _Her sodding mask,_ Cailan had called it once, an edge of annoyance roughening his usually sweet voice.  He had apologized, later, but she never did quite forget, how little he valued the very strengths that had helped her embrace the duties of a Queen.

The very things she had had to become to survive the marriage he had gifted her.

"The same time tomorrow, then?"  It was harder than she had remembered, to be courteous when all she wanted was to scream

Zevran nodded, a clear economical gesture for once, no hint of drama or exaggeration.

"Thank you, Zevran."

She returned to her quarters to clean and dress in proper formal attire, steps steady and even, chin up.

Even here, apparently alone in the hallways of her very own Palace, someone could be watching.  Would remember a change in her usual routine.

She was glad she always bathed alone, one small guarantee of privacy.  She would need it today, even more than usual.

She had not meant to fall in love again.

And somehow she had done it anyways, not once but twice, and she had no idea what she was going to do about it.


End file.
